


je trouve la lumière en vous

by arizayna



Series: je trouve la lumière en vous [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: ITS NOT FINISHED, M/M, but it's written, i felt like doing a paris fic, plus it's been in my drafts forever, what is this, wow first actual fic on this website
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:55:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arizayna/pseuds/arizayna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you hold tight, shadows will be lost in the light. Because sometimes, fate and your dreams will collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	je trouve la lumière en vous

**Author's Note:**

> (this fic was really just an excuse to write ziall and paris and art and college and music and fluffy cuteness in one shhhh, title is french for i find the light in you by joe brooks)

_In French, there's a quote, la lumière de l'amour est vu par le coeur. It means that the light of love is seen through the heart._

It's the autumn of 2013, and Zayn isn't in love. He sits at a mahogany table near the window, uninspired, pencils and paints thrown around in an attempt to finish up his final art project.

_La lumière de l'amour est vu par le coeur._

The phrase stares up at him from the sheet of paper that his teacher handed out that morning. Zayn's done countless projects this year, but this is by far the most difficult, and clearly the most important. The entire prospect of a future (or lack of, seeing as how he's in his second year of college and currently unemployed) depends on this, at least by a large margin.

He uses an arm to sweep the unused pencils into the chiffonier, and then gets up and climbs out onto the balcony, patting around his back pocket for a cigarette.

Technically, he promised he'd quit, or something like that, a year ago, but he gave up because he doesn't really give a shit anyway. Presently he leans forward with one arm against the marble railing and blinks out at the City of Lights.

Paris glitters back, all jeweled buildings and damp roads, couples walking hand-in-hand along the sidewalks, because he's still single despite three years in what is supposedly the most romantic city in the world. He'd blame his broken French and the minimal hours that he actually spends socializing, but like. He thought that love was something that just _comes_ to you in Paris, you know, as some sort of automatic entitlement or something once you're in the city.

Apparently not. Zayn lights the cigarette, takes a drag, feels the smoke curl inside his lungs, and refuses to admit that he's bitter about any of this.

_La lumière de l'amour est vu par le coeur._

It doesn't make sense. The heart is a muscular organ, not a pair of eyes. Even if it were some sappy metaphor, Zayn's pretty sure that the heart just does that little stuttering thing, not start searching for light in every dark corner.

Normally, he'd draw some sunset or something and call it the metaphorical depiction of how the sun never sets when you're in love, but he feels like the project is asking for something different. He doesn't know what, exactly, but he thinks a crappy painting of a sunset wouldn't quite cut it.

He exhales smoke and closes his eyes against the wind and thinks that yeah, he really is tired of sleeping alone everyday. And being a part of something so small and unidentifiable is miserable. And there's a certain disconnection that comes with not belonging to anyone or anything, so much that he can feel the ache to vanish spilling through his bones, interrupting the pathway that things normally flow in. It's like no matter what he does, he does it alone, and Zayn used to like this feeling, but now -

He's _lonely_ , he realizes, and then snuffs out the cigarette, flicking the remaining ash like moon dust onto the lawn below. He's lonely and tired and miserable.

As the wind laughs around him and leaves kisses on his face, Zayn looks out at the sparkling Paris lights; like dull and fading stars against the night sky.

They're too far apart to form any constellations, and that small thought manages to make him feel a little better, somehow.

\--

The small fluorescent store lights flicker over Zayn's skin, harsh and bright like a spotlight as he shuffles to the counter and slides a pack of cigarettes almost guiltily across the plastic surface.

The cashier scans it and it's only a matter of seconds before Zayn's handing over six euros to pay. He accepts the plastic bag but doesn't use it, tossing it aside the moment he's out of the store.

Out into the cool air, the lights are much softer, and Zayn exhales slowly. He moves sideways, half-hiding himself in the shadows that trees cast over the dark road. He rips open the pack, pulls out a cigarette, and fumbles round his pocket for a lighter. Cupping his hand around the flame like a baby bird, he lights the end.

And then he takes a drag, feeling the smoke burn down his throat and rush from his lungs into his head. It's an instant sensation of calmness, and Zayn feels some of the quivers die down in his fingertips.

"That thing could kill you, you know."

Zayn starts, not at the statement - he's heard that one too many times to be bothered - but at the voice, which came from the shorter figure standing outside the store doors.

"What, didn't you notice me standing here?" the boy grins as he moves into the light. Zayn notices pale hair and light blue eyes and fair skin, all covered up in a black sweater. "Too engrossed in your cigarettes, are you?"

Zayn opens his mouth and moves it. No words come out.

"Oh, uh, this is awkward," the boy says, eyes widening a little. "Are you French? _Il es comprenez l'anglais?_ "

Zayn suddenly finds his own voice, repulsed by the horrible broken French which is somehow even worse than his own. "It's _vous_ comprenez l'anglais," he says. "And yes, I do understand English. What I don't understand is why a stranger is telling me how to live my life."

"Oh, I'm not telling you how to live your life," the boy flashes his teeth, (and Zayn can't help but notice how straight they are, like maybe he's worn braces or something), "I'm just parroting a phrase that I'm sure you've heard a thousand times before, in the hope that it would guilt you into stopping."

Zayn snorts. "Well, thank you for your concern, but it's of no real use right now."

The boy sighs melodramatically, dips his hands into the pockets of his sweater, and smiles up at Zayn. "I know that," he says. "It's just a shame that such a pretty face is going to be wasted away like this."

Zayn notices that ash is gathering over the tip of his cigarette, and he flicks it off. He doesn't even know how to respond, honestly. "Wouldn't really make a difference, though, would it?" he says eventually. "Everyone's going to die, it's just a matter of time."

"That's an optimistic way to look at it, I suppose," Niall nods seriously, and Zayn wonders if it's appropriate to laugh. "But still. I’ve just acknowledged that you have a pretty face and I'm kinda butthurt that you’re ignoring my attempts at flirting with you."

"Oh," Zayn says, and his voice sounds too awkward and loud as he searches for the right words. "Uh. Thank you, I guess?"

The boy narrows his blue eyes, pale like the ocean just after dawn. "I'm guessing that this isn't the first time you've been told that you're pretty, then."

"Pretty," Zayn repeats slowly, tasting the ridiculous word on his tongue. "You think I'm _pretty_."

The blond boy nods enthusiastically, like there's nothing wrong with the statement.

"I'm a twenty one year old man," Zayn says, forgetting about the cigarette perched between the fingers of his left hand, thin slivers of smoke ribboning around the faded colors of twilight. "I don't think _pretty's_ the most appropriate--"

"Of course it is!" the boy bobs his head, throwing his hands up expressively. "I'm a man with a very impressive vocabulary, and I couldn't think of a more suitable word!"

"...Handsome, maybe?" Zayn suggests cautiously, deciding that he's somehow got himself associated with some type of lunatic. "Or dashing?"

The boy tilts his head to the side and squints his eyes hard at Zayn, like the words were a new hat or something that Zayn's trying on.

"No," he says after a moment. "You're still pretty."

Zayn doesn't know how to respond again, so he just places the cigarette back into his mouth and takes a drag.

"You're lucky that I happened to come across you so early," the boy says after a few seconds of silence, watching him. "If it had been a few years later, you mightn't have been so attractive. That's what cigs do to you."

"So you've never smoked, then?" Zayn almost laughs.

“No,” the boy says, “and I am not going to let you peer pressurize me into this, so don’t even try.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Zayn does laugh this time, and even though he’s still confused and bewildered that he’s making conversation with a complete stranger, he decides that maybe they can be friends.

“I’m Niall,” the boy smiles like he’s read Zayn’s mind.

“I’m Zayn,” he grins.

“I’d ask for a more in-depth biography,” Niall says, smirking. “But it’s late and I have needy drunk friends who need a ride home.”

“Oh,” Zayn doesn’t bother overlaying the disappointment in his voice. He finally makes an actual acquaintance outside of, like, obligatory project groupings, and it ends up being so short-lived.

“Hey, uh, do you wanna come with?” Niall says suddenly. “I mean, if you don’t mind the nasty after-effects of frat parties? I don’t really wanna have to put up with my mates alone.”

“No, I don’t mind,” Zayn laughs again. He tosses the half-smoked cigarette into the bushes and tries to contain the glow starting to spark inside him as he follows Niall a little way down the road toward a cosy black car parked beside the sidewalk.

“I’m guessing you’re not French,” Niall says as they get into the car, hands shoving the key into the ignition. “Not to be racially discriminatory or anything, but, uh -”

“No, I’m not,” Zayn huffs out a chuckle, saving Niall the pain of embarrassing himself. “I’m from England, but I’ve got mixed blood, so like?”

“That would explain the name,” Niall nods. “And God, your fucking glorious _tan_ , Zayn.”

Zayn casts an involuntary glance down at his skin. “The complexion is an ethnic blessing, I think.”

“You are so ridiculously pretty,” Niall shakes his head and starts driving. They pass by taxicabs and busy streets, people walking alongside each other. “If I were a girl, I’d be _jealous_ of those eyelashes.”  
  
“You’re very, um, straightforward,” Zayn says after a moment, but that warm glow inside him is still burning.

“It’s a habit. I try not to hide things away,” Niall tells him. “Not too many people are honest about how they feel anymore, you know? And I don’t want to be like that.”

“So your definition of honesty would be complimenting someone you met on the streets five minutes ago?’

“Yes, and no,” Niall says. “I don’t compliment, like, _everyone,_ just the people who look like they could use it.”

Zayn snorts. “So I’m your little kindness charity case, am I?”

“No, it’s hard to explain,” Niall chuckles. “But you’ll figure it out.”

“I’ll hope so,” Zayn says. “How long have you been living here?”

“My dad’s job has been here for five years,” Niall says. “But I only got into college last summer. What about you?”

“I’m in my second year, I got an art scholarship,” Zayn smiles. “What are you doing in college?”  
  
“I’m doing music and whatnot,” Niall waves a hand dismissively, eyes still on the road. “Still my first year, so I’m undecided. You all riled up about your art, though?”  
  
“I try to be,” Zayn admits. “Feels like one of the last colorful things left in the world, you know?”  
  
“Ah,” Niall smiles appreciatively. “You’re poetic as well.”

The car lurches to a sudden break at a traffic light, and Zayn feels his stomach flip.

“Sorry,” Niall laughs in a tone that gives away that he’s not sorry at all. “I don’t care too much for intricate road laws.”

Zayn exhales and tries not to give away his mild panic. “Maybe agreeing to accompany you was a mistake.”  
  
“Nah,” Niall grins and Zayn feels like every light in Paris has just flared open. He squints a little in the brightness of it all and looks distractedly out the window. The stars are out tonight, swimming around in the sky lazily. “Right, since we’re almost there,” Niall says, carelessly meandering his car into serpentine neighborhood roads. “I’m going to apologize in advance for what you may witness tonight. My friends are all heavy drinkers, and they haven’t been very elegant while sober to begin with.”

“As long as nobody pukes on my hair, I should be fine,” Zayn shrugs.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Niall warns, and Zayn almost gets out of the car right there and then.

“How come you aren’t at the party, anyway?” he asks, as the car comes to an ungraceful halt outside one of the houses lined in pedantic rows along the neighborhood. Loud music and raucous laughter spill out like water from within the walls.

“I thought I’d come up with some brilliant, _prodigal_ new song on my guitar,” Niall says, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and sighing. “Sadly it was only a two-verse piece of complete and utter shit, so I scrapped it and spent the rest of the night driving around Paris until I saw you.”

Zayn tries to hide the fact that he’s flattered, but he can feel his cheeks warming up anyway, like a slow-burning flame. Niall doesn’t seem to notice, because he’s already getting out of the car. “So here’s the plan. I’ll go in and locate the three of them, and you stay here. If anyone tries to sell you coke or something while I’m gone, flip ‘em off and tell them you’re allergic. Cool?”

“I highly doubt the effectiveness of your plan, but okay,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes as he watches Niall skip off into the house like a fucking girl scout. He contemplates having a cigarette while waiting, but he thinks it best not to screw up his first genuine friendship this early. Looking around the car, he discovers the stash of CD’s in an open compartment, and starts thumbing through them.

He doesn’t recognize half of it, but decides to push one of them into the player anyway. From the sound of it, it’s probably some underground indie rock, but he kind of appreciates it. Thinks that maybe this is the kind of music Niall listens to, driving around Paris alone while his friends are at a party, and the thought makes him smile, makes him connect with the music a little more.

He gets through three tracks before he sees Niall returning, dragging onto a tall, curly-haired boy, and escorting two others behind him. The odd group stumbles toward the car, and Niall pushes all three of them into the backseat.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” he calls, sliding back into the driver’s seat, shaking his head with a fond smile.

“Who’s this,” the curly-haired one looks at Zayn, with an affronted expression on his face. “That’s _my_ seat.”

“No, Harry, your seat always has been and always will be the one at the back,” Niall rolls his eyes and starts up the car. “And this is Zayn, he’s English too.”  
  
“He’s pretty,” Harry smiles softly, leaning back against his seat with a satisfied sigh, and Niall snorts as if to say _I told you so_. “Can I have him?”

“You’re lucky that Louis’ so drunk he won’t remember a word of this tomorrow,” Niall says, glancing at the other blue-eyed boy in the back. “That’s Louis, by the way, he’s a lovely lad,” he tells Zayn, “and that’s Liam,” he points at the third boy, who’s got dark ash hair and brown eyes, like a puppy. “Yes, I am fully aware that his shirt isn’t even buttoned, but please reserve your judgment till a later time.”

Zayn laughs. “Will do.”

“And for the two of you who aren’t about to pass out,” Niall says, “this is Zayn. He’s really pretty and really nice, so I brought him along.”  
  
Harry’s still got that misty-eyed smile on his face. “You got a boyfriend, Zayn?”

“No, Harry, but _you_ do,” Niall rolls his eyes again. “Jesus.”

“Niaaaaall,” the ash-haired one, Liam, moans. “I’m gonna throw up.”

“You either do that in Louis’ pants or outside the window,” Niall says casually, letting the car cruise forwards. “But if I find one fleck of your intestinal bacteria on my car seat tomorrow, you’re dead.”

Liam nods and promptly vomits into the car rug, retching and grabbing his stomach and moaning salaciously while he’s at it.

Niall sighs, eyeing the mess. “I figured as much.”

Zayn glances at Liam. “Is he going to be okay?”  
  
“He’ll be fine,” Niall shrugs. “It isn’t the first time.”

Louis flops his head into Harry’s lap and makes indiscrete groans, pawing at Harry’s crotch like a puppy. “Wanna know what I did today, Niall?”

“I really don’t think that I do.”

“Right, so, so, you know Harry’s mate, Nick?” Louis raves on anyway, speaking into Harry’s lap. “I was tryin’a have a go at him, yeah, because he was whoring all over Harry, and he started laughing at me for no reason, he fucking laughed so hard that he– _pissed_ all over his own carpet, right, that’s disgusting, and I said to him, ‘you’re a fucking mess, man’ and he goes, ‘at least Harry texts _me_ back when I send him pictures of my dick’, and –“

“Did you punch him?” Niall interrupts sternly. “I hope you punched him.”

“I punched him,” Louis chuckles. “Hard, on the nose. And I threw his phone into the pool. Can’t be sendin’ my Harry his shrimp dick photos now, can he?”

“No, that was very clever of you, Louis,” Niall says kindly, and Louis smiles into Harry’s crotch happily.

“You’re a good friend, you know,” Zayn says appreciatively. “It’s nice of you to be doing this for them.”

“They’re my best mates, and they’d do the same for me,” Niall says, but he’s smiling. “Anyway. I see you like Smallpools?”

“Excuse me?”

“Smallpools,” Niall nods toward the CD player. “That band you’re playing right now.”

“Oh,” Zayn says, embarrassed. “I didn’t know them, honestly, still don’t. Just stuck one of your CD’s in and started playing. It’s good, though. The band’s good. I like them -”

Niall laughs. “You’re rambling, love.”

Zayn doesn’t realize he’s blushing until he catches sight of his own face in the rearview mirror, warm and slightly pinked, and then he ducks his head down and tries to pull his head together.

Niall jerks the car to a sudden stop at a traffic light. “I’m assuming that you’ll stay the night?”

“Stay… the night?” Zayn repeats, the words foreign. “Where?”

“With me, silly,” Niall laughs and shakes his head. “At our flat. They don’t usually let people in, but we’ll find a way.”

Zayn’s head goes light, filling with a sudden dizziness. “Like. Stay? At your dorm? With, um, you?”

Niall frowns slightly, turning to look at Zayn. “Why, is there something wrong?”

“No, no,” Zayn says quickly. “It’s just – um. No one’s ever asked me to do that before. Not here, and not... ever.”

“Well, I’m asking you now,” Niall’s face melts back into a smile, radiant and brighter than Zayn can stand to look directly into. “Would you like to come stay the night with me? I’ve got fuck all to do, really. And it’s late, so, would you?”

“Yeah,” Zayn breathes the word out, letting it evaporate out into the autumnal air, steaming against the window like frost and it sounds like a promise. “Yeah, I’d like to.”

\--

Five hours later, Zayn’s sitting on Niall’s balcony smelling like wood smoke and cold tea. It tastes dry and bitter because he hasn’t added any sugar, but he thinks it might help him stay awake.

Niall climbs onto the balcony beside him in his pajamas, pulling his knees to his chest. “So. This is the part where I ask you the mandatory questions. Where you live, what your family’s like, whether you’ve got a lot of friends, or whether you’re a virgin. You know, the usual.”

“I’m getting the impression that you’re not a conformist, though,” Zayn smiles.

“Oh?” Niall asks, grinning himself. “Are you suggesting we skip the boring old introductions, then?”

Zayn sips the tea, swallows it down. “How many innocent college boys do you lure in here each week, Niall?”

“Surprisingly,” Niall says. “You’re the first one.”

“You say the same thing to all of them.”

“I think you’ll find that I’m quite possibly the most terrible liar you’ll ever encounter,” Niall tells him, smirking. “But for now, just assume I’m telling the truth.”

“Alright,” Zayn says, still sipping the tea. “So I’m the first innocent college boy you lure into your dorm. That makes me special.”

 “Mm,” Niall rests his chin on top of his knees, hugging his legs close. He looks smaller, somehow, when he does that. “Very special.”

“Your hair’s damp,” Zayn mentions after a moment, surprised that he’s noticing this at all. His keen artist eyes usually find the bridge between small details and large shape – but for some reason, tonight there’s only been one thing he can focus on. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“Nah, I’ve got a Herculean immunity,” Niall looks up, eyes flickering and resting on Zayn’s. “Saved Mum’s medical bills all my life. Besides, a cold would be welcome anyway. I’d rather regurgitate my innards out than go to college tomorrow.” 

“How come?” Zayn sits the cup down gently beside him, imitates Niall’s position with the knees drawn in towards his chest.

 “Fucking prof wants a new composition. Such bullshit,” Niall rolls his eyes. “As if I’d come up with some virtuosic song when I’ve just spent the entire weekend hungover.”

 “Huh.”

 “You don’t drink much, do you?” Niall asks, as if the question has just occurred to him.

“Nah,” Zayn shrugs, leaning back against the railing but keeping his gaze on the other boy. “Drinking’s no fun on my own.”

“Don’t tell me,” Niall raises his palm like he’s directing traffic, “you’re an art geek with no friends and an unhealthy obsession over animated porn.”

“I do _not_ watch Hentai,” Zayn replies, affronted.

“So an art geek with no friends?”

Zayn lets out a chuckle. “I was hoping to be less obvious.”

“Nobody can sustain a beautiful high-cheekboned image for long,” Niall assures him, grinning. “Funny that, though. Thought you’d be a college god or something with that face.”

“Do I really have to explain that a pretty face isn’t a magical entitlement to popularity and success?” Zayn snorts.

“Ah, so you _agree_ that you’re pretty. It’s ridiculous, really,” Niall shakes his head. “I should be laughing at how attractive you are.”

Zayn’s face feels warmer than it has any right to be. Niall’s damp hair seems distracting – the way it’s flattened in some places and tousled in others, with a soft sheen that catches the light from a nearby lamp. For some reason, Zayn’s hand is itching to touch it, to feel the texture and the dampness under his skin.

“Your hair’s wet,” he says, unnecessarily.

“Thank you, I believe you mentioned that before,” Niall laughs loudly, the sound echoing like bells.

Zayn smiles and finishes his tea. It’s slightly chilly outside, the kind of weather that leaves him craving a smoke, but he doesn’t mention it.

“Right then,” Niall says, as if on cue. “It’s late and I’ve got to be up early for classes. See you inside?”

“Yeah,” Zayn nods, watching as Niall climbs off the ledge and pads back inside, taking the empty teacup with him.

He waits for a moment and then pulls out his pack and lights a cigarette, lifting himself to his knees so that can rest his arms on the railing and look outside at the chiaroscuro skyline. Paris is buried in darkness, but still faintly glimmering from unlit windows. Dusk has always been his favourite part of the day – the sloping shapes and untouched stillness, and all the colours, so similar in their darkness but different in the underlying tones. Zayn wonders why he’s never painted a canvas like this before.

He goes through two cigarettes, and lights his third one on the thought that he’s not actually alone anymore. He won’t be returning to an empty bed, not tonight at least. There are people in this house, people he likes, people who will still be there in the morning. Even though he barely knows them, he’s comforted by the strange solidity of human presence.

He puts out the smoke and then contentedly makes his way back into the apartment, closing the sliding doors behind him. Quickly following the path to what he remembers is Niall’s room, he knocks on the door and pushes it open.

“Come in, Zayn.”

A smile jumps to his face at the sound of Niall’s sleepy and very lovely voice. He enters the room, which is dimly lit with a soft orange lamp that warms the blond of Niall’s hair. The room is spacious but cluttered, and even if Niall’s bed looks big enough, Zayn doesn’t want to invade his personal space yet.

“Uh, do you want me to clear some stuff off the floor so I can lay the blanket on it?” he asks.

“I doubt you’d get very far,” Niall muses, propping himself up against the pillows.

“I could try,” Zayn shrugs.

“Shut up and get in here,” Niall grins, shifting to the side and opening the blanket.

Zayn’s head fills with a type of sudden delirious joy that makes him dive into the bed, burying himself under the comforter and laying so that one side of his body is touching Niall’s other side. It’s calming, even though the contact is very soft – Zayn feels complete.

Niall reaches one arm out to turn off the lamp, and darkness floods the room. He snuggles close to Zayn so that their sides are pressed against each other.

“God, you’re pretty even when I can’t see you,” he whispers after a moment.

“Shut up,” Zayn whispers back, grateful that Niall can’t see him blush.

“Goodnight, Zayn,” Niall sounds like he’s smiling.

“Goodnight,” Zayn says, feeling warm and fuzzy and comforted. It’s so nice to actually be with someone – not hugging or kissing or fucking, but just to _be_ with them, existing in the same moment and sharing their breaths. Zayn feels more content than he has in a long time.

He shuts his eyes and listens to the sound of Niall’s rhythmic breathing, easily coalescing into quiet, puppy-like snores. Zayn smiles and lets it guide him into sleep, all the while thinking of how whole he feels at this very second.

This is the kind of craving that cigarettes don’t quell.

_\--_


End file.
